Loss Vegas - free content.
10-27-2013
, 02:39 AM
I can't link the book but you might enjoy this chapter 
LOSS VEGAS
Simmo approached me after training one morning and told me to clear my schedule during a rare upcoming weekend off due to an International break. Years earlier this wouldn’t have been an option for Simmo, who was in and out of the England squad, but his best days were well behind him now. Ella understood. She realised it was more team bonding than James Bonding!
I’d been to Barcelona and to Magaluf but ladies and gentlemen, I was off to Las Vegas - the home of endless antithesis. The rich gamble alongside the poor. For every millionaire, there’s a bum on the streets. For every big winner, there’s an even bigger loser. There are as many degenerates incredulous as to their good fortune as those cursing their bad luck. In fact, there was an excellent chance I’d stay there for life. If Wembley is considered the Mecca for football fans, Las Vegas is definitely the Wailing Wall for degenerates. I couldn’t wait to get to Vegas and in between the compulsory stag-do activities, I had planned my gambling meticulously in the hope of registering a much-needed profit. With any luck, a now retired Tyson would be there. A gambler never forgets.
Seven relatively famous people and three unknowns took off late Friday evening for a two-day gambling bonanza. Hollow had made the cut as a member of the post-25 club whilst Wheezy and Jonno were left on the sidelines for maturity and popularity reasons respectively. I was excited but the group’s noobish enthusiasm began to annoy me. ‘Black 17, yeah that’s my number’; ‘You gotta split kings when the dealer shows a 7’; and my favourite ‘There can never be more than seven reds or blacks in a row - I’m going to double up until I win. Easy money!’ I don’t believe I need to explain to the gamblers among you what this last statement refers to. For those who don’t know, there is a theory called ‘Martingale’ which advocates placing double the previous bet on the same selection until you win. For instance, you place £5 on red. If it wins, you win £5. If it loses, you place £10 on red. If this wins, you win £10 but lose the original £5 - £5 profit. If this loses you place £20 (-£10 and -£5). Rinse and repeat. The only problem is that if you lose eight times in a row, you would need to place £1,280 to win your original £5 back. ‘It works’ I hear you cry, if you have unlimited money. Well, firstly, you don’t. Secondly, casinos have maximum limits; and, lastly, if you had the needed £5,242,880 (after losing twenty times consecutively) to win your original fiver back, you wouldn’t need to gamble to win a fiver. This may be confusing but my advice is anyone who suggests using Martingale is a ****ing idiot.
Also, Martingale committed suicide and if that wasn’t enough to put you off using his system, a casino in Monte Carlo holds the record for 36 blacks in a row on roulette. I would not be Martingaling anything. I had £25,000 in my bum bag and figured £1m was a reasonable goal. Yes, I was wearing a bum bag. All the pros do!
A friend had bought me some airplane reading and during check-in I got stuck in. ‘The Dice Man’ was a fairly popular book in the late eighties with its central theme focusing on decisions being made purely through the roll of a dice. This intrigued me since much of my gambling was based on chance. Even in games such as poker, I had often been unsure of what play to make and ‘flipped a coin in my head’. Just two chapters in I decided to commit the ultimate degenerate lifestyle choice. Whilst in Vegas, I would make every important decision flipping a coin. This weekend was filling a void in my life - the inevitable gambling quenching my thirst for action. But this was not enough. Now, everything would be down to luck although the dealers, the strippers and even the trolley dollies would have to wait an extra five seconds before I committed to a decision.
My first opportunity arrived during the flight. We were flying first-class although we’d subsidised the non-footballers’ air fares. I felt rather nauseous shelling out £2,500 for a seat on a plane but Vegas was not a place to be thrifty. I’d win it back anyway, right? I was offered a tall glass of champagne or a glass of a particularly fine Merlot. Being the first time I’d let fate decide my course of action, I felt no embarrassment in flipping a £1 coin in front of the gorgeous stewardess. It dropped to the floor as crickets began to play out-of-tune violins in the background. She must have been thinking I was over the flying limit or just a tad strange, when I saw the shining head of Queen Elizabeth gleaming in the dimly-lit surroundings. ‘Champagne’ I announced, sounding as if none of other passengers were worthy of such a beverage. ‘Right away sir’ came the reply and I was literally off to a flyer.
The movies I watched en route were decided by the gods. I was also denied sleep by those cruel divinities, instead commanded to participate in group games with my fellow passengers. There had been no gambling throughout the first quarter of the flight but it was all was about to change. Simmo’s best man, a civilian by the name of Edward, introduced an outstanding game of chance, sure to satisfy even the most hardened of gamblers.
This was a head-to-head match designed for maximum damage. Simmo and I were instructed to find a paperback novel (I had my copy of The Dice Man) and turn to a random page selected by Edward. We were then to multiply the number of ‘and’s’ by the number of ‘the’s’ on our particular page but to keep the figure secret. On this occasion, I had a particularly lengthy piece of dialogue and therefore the exact count was just ‘six and’s’ x ‘five the’s’ for a total of 30. The next step is to guesstimate our opponents’ number and multiply the two final totals together. We would then be entering into a ‘hidden auction’ whereby I write down a number as would Simmo. Whoever is lowest is ‘selling’ and whoever is highest is ‘buying’. If you’re struggling, all will become clear. The stakes were £1 per point.
I have a total of 30 which I figured was a low count. If my opponent has 50 our combined total would be 1,500. This seemed reasonable enough and allowed some margin for profit if he was particularly low. Anyway, I opted for 1,500, Simmo wrote down 3,000 and the final figure was 1,344. I was selling at 1,500 (as I was lowest) and had therefore made a cool £156.
I instantly presumed I possessed an edge (just as I had when I won my first bet all those years ago). Edward suggested another game - how could I refuse? Simmo, licking his wounds, subbed Edward in and announced the random number with a touch of bitterness. As I perused the page, I realised I had stumbled upon a monster. The page was littered with ‘and’s’ and ‘the’s’ which had the potential for meaningful profits. Since my count was approximately 350, if his page contained an average total (or what I believed to be an average) of 80, the end count would be 28,000! Assuming I won the ‘buy’ side with a larger than average bid, I could be looking at £10,000. Simmo had already agreed to stand Edward’s losses and therefore guilt was not an issue. I opted for a high estimate of 15,000. It was imperative for me to have the highest number of the two of us but the profits needed to be considered.
Though I had an edge in this bet (any extreme count situation ensures an edge), it was important not to bid too high as this would decrease the gains on a pastime which would not be lasting long. This was all about maximisation of resources, preparing me for Vegas.
Sitting opposite each other on a four-seater table, we both looked smug. I passed my number to Simmo as did Edward. I blurted out 15,000 unable to control my excitement. Edward announced ‘10,000’ with a calmness which could only mean one thing. He’d heard my high number and knew I was ‘buying’ - he must have a very low number on his page and had ****ed me. Sure enough Edward revealed page 124 of his John Grisham novel picked up just hours earlier. The page was blank except for the words ‘Chapter 8’. The combined total of both our ‘and’s’ and ‘the’s’ was an incredible zero. Edward had read my expressions and believed my number to be high. He was therefore able to milk me dry, extracting the maximum. I owed £10,000 to someone I’d met just hours earlier due to a stupid game involving the words ‘and’ and ‘the’. This was not in the plan. The bankroll had been reduced to a paltry £15,000 - the million looked a long, long way off.
We touched down at McCarran International in Las Vegas at 9pm local time.
Most airports look the same to me. But this one was a little different. This was Vegas remember and it has earned its title of Sin City and works hard to hang on to its reputation.
It was like walking into a giant, shiny casino. There were slots everywhere – as far as the eye could see. I’m told there are more than 1,200 of the damn things. So with more than 50 million passengers passing through each year there’s probably a queue at each of them as travellers wait in line to lose their cash along with their self-respect.
I’ve always found slots a complete waste of time and space. Even I, a dedicated and addicted gambler, know you can’t win. Yes, you get a good run for your money, but in the end it’s your money that runs out.
But I wasn’t worried about that right now. The addiction began to stir in the pit of my stomach as I found myself confronted – more like overwhelmed – by a haven of gambling outlets. Like I said, slots never interested me and failed to engage my interest at the arrivals lounge. Winning the jackpot was almost as unlikely as winning the lottery and I had no desire to feed thousands of quarters into a machine.
Think of the repetitive strain injury not to mention that it would ruin my street cred. Only old ladies play the slots and there was proper, hardcore gambling to be done.
Activities were planned for the following day and so this was a free evening of sorts. There is nothing free about Vegas though. They take your money straight away and call back for your soul a little later.
We were staying at the Wynn, which like every well-established hotel had a casino along with a card room. I would most certainly be visiting both - the former for craps, the latter to crap all over my opponents.
We had booked two five-bedroom suites beforehand but I had an ace up my sleeve, ready to be played in the home of the card deck. The Wynn happened to be the place of work of a friend’s brother, Michael. He was the card room/comps manager and everyone knew him as Pants. He had received this nickname being the twin brother of a friend affectionately known as Trousers.
Pants had been working at the Wynn for a number of years and had a fair amount of jurisdiction over comping rooms and chips at the tables. I sauntered over to the front desk, unzipping my bum bag as I approached the concierges. I waved behind me to nine of the Vegas X effectively telling them ‘watch this’. I chuckled as I approached the desk thinking of the horrendous collection of Hawaiian shirts and awful suit tie combos.
‘Hi….Jamie’ I said as caught sight of a female concierge’s name tag, trying to not to ogle the tremendous cleavage on offer. I imagined it was there to be viewed but I didn’t want to embarrass her.
‘Hey there. How can I help you?’ Now I thought Jamie was checking me out.
‘I’m looking for Michael Lloyd - is he around?’
‘He’s very busy sir. Can I take a message? I’ll be sure to pass it on.’
As many of you will know, tipping is a way of life in Vegas with everyone from the valets and floor-men to the dealers getting backhanders from punters. For dropping $20 here and there you’re treated better than those who don’t. If the rest of the world worked like that, only the rich would get their way. About right then.
I went for a fifty dollar note and deftly slid it over to Jamie’s beautifully manicured hands. Each of her nails were a different colour which I would later find out represented each of the chips housed at the Wynn. Jamie’s ample bosoms, heaving between her third undone button from the Wynn’s uniform, were crying out for the $50 but I wanted a penthouse suite, not to be frogmarched out by security!
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Jamie winked at me.
Five minutes later and after at least three insults from the impatient gamblers behind, Pants pulled up. He was a young man but oozed experience. He knew how to take care of degenerates. His demeanour was welcoming without being patronising even though his job was effectively to comp losers or whales as they are referred to. I was a loser but to Michael, I was a good friend of his brother’s and I expected him to carry out his duties to the same high standard I’d heard about.
After exchanging pleasantries for a short time about the nature of our trip, we got down to business.
‘So what can I do for you?’ Pants must have asked this question a thousand times. I wondered what the success rate was. I intended the percentage to increase.
‘Bit cheeky to ask but can you hook us up with a penthouse suite. We’re going to be gambling quite a bit in this gaff.’
‘Well, as it happens, we have a couple of penthouse suites going spare. No extra charge as long as you put in some time on the floor. You’ll have champagne waiting for you in there and the butler’s in the lodge at the end of the hall.’
I felt embarrassed tipping Michael but I was tremendously grateful not least because the lads were impressed. So I engineered a situation where I could put The Dice Man into practice. We descended to the casino floor, with my bum bag at the ready.
I pulled out two $100 - ‘C-notes’ - and told Michael they was going on red (after flipping my lucky coin). He would keep the lot if we were lucky in exchange for his help. Red 36 is always a particularly popular number for some reason. Irrelevant, because it landed on Red 7. I proudly placed $400 worth of chips in Michael’s hand. For once in Vegas, a transaction had been completed with neither party being shafted. Pants trousered his prize deftly with all the skill of a man who received such back-handers on a regular basis.
He wished me luck at the tables and told me not to hesitate to ask him for anything I might need - a true professional.
Our troop of ten, a pod of whales, ascended forty-two floors to check out our digs. Personally, I was determined to make the most of it and plucked a Jack Daniels (champagne was saved for when I’d won) from the mini-bar, despite the fact that it probably cost three or four times as much as it did in Sainsbury’s. Anyway, I thought, perhaps drinks would be part of the deal. After all, we had a butler chucked in for free. But, really, I didn’t care one way or the other. I felt I was going to win – and win big. Just like everyone else in the hotel, I suppose. But as luxurious as my accommodation was I wasn’t going to be spending much time there. I had work to do.
Ocean’s 10 swam to the floor with our appetite whetted for hardcore gambling. The pod split up to cover all areas of the casino. I noticed Simmo and Edward headed for the roulette wheel, whilst Hollow brooded over the baccarat table. The others opted for casino stud, craps and blackjack. Though I’d gambled and lost more than the rest of the crew put together, I felt superior. I knew the odds and winning was extremely unlikely. Poker was the only option where I could use skill to decimate the bankrolls of other ‘gamblers’ rather than attempting to dent the coffers of the Wynn. Steve Wynn drank his morning orange juice from a 24-carat gold, diamond encrusted goblet. I doubted anyone had even got close to breaking the bank.
It didn’t take me long to locate my table of choice. There were a couple of obvious tourist-types with check shirts and ten-gallon hats, ordering beers in loud voices. They were either very good actors or guaranteed losers. After watching them play two or three hands they were clearly in the latter category.
Then there was the older man out on the loose – his wife probably back home oblivious to what he was up to – and cozying up to a peroxide blonde about a third of his age. Both of them had their assets on show – he had a pile of chips the size of the Empire State Building, while her best feature – features – were on show thanks to an expensive low-cut dress. She’d be flashing the flesh while he was flashing the cash. Another guaranteed loser.
The two others at the table were harder to read. There was a business type in a smart suit, who didn’t look like a regular on the circuit and a modestly dressed woman who was going quietly about her business without attracting too much attention. I did hear someone murmuring that her name was Kathy – a well-established professional. After watching for another fifteen minutes or so, I reckoned the businessman wasn’t much of a threat, but the woman could play. So I worked out the odds. They were in my favour. Five opponents, but only one of them with a real chance. There was a spare seat and one of the Texan loudmouths shouted over to
me: ‘Come and join us buddy.’
I hesitated for a minute, not wanting to show I was desperate to join their table, but eventually I sat down and asked for $5,000 in chips from the floorman.
I was comfortably rolled for this game and could play without fear of losing my buy-in. This was an advantage I intended to exploit as I saw ‘scared money’ (players afraid to lose a big pot) at the table.
For this next paragraph you will need a limited understanding of no-limit Texas hold ’em, which is considered the purest form of poker. I’m writing this for gamblers first and foremost and must give them the content they desire.
Approximately forty minutes into my session I was up $2,000 or so. I picked up two black aces in early position and I opted only to call the blinds, instead of raising. A loose player raised to $150 which allowed me to then re-raise to $500. This somewhat gave the strength of my hand away but the fish was in no mood to fold. The sum of $1,000 was now in the pot and the flop arrived 2c 2h Ah. I now had a full-house, near unbeatable. In fact, I had such a strong hand that it was difficult for my opponent to have anything.
I had what we refer to in the poker world as the nizzles. The nuts, the absolute best hand (if you discount the unlikely quad twos). You have to worry when as a man you dream about nuts and flops but they are essential to winning. Seeing flops and hitting them hard is just a part of poker.
I decided to check to allow my opponent to bluff instead of scaring him off with a big bet.
‘Over to you, boss.’ I lightly tapped my knuckles on the table – the universal sign of checking. A check is a play that tells the player, I’m not ready to bet but I might call or even raise once facing a bet.
The carp duly obliged with a bet of $1,000 which I presume was intended to make me fold. As long as there was no earthquake and the dealer wasn’t on the take, I would be winning this hand.
I hesitated for some time before calling his bet.
‘What’chu got?’ asked the loosey goosey.
‘Not much. I’m not going to let you bully me though!’ That’s me being cryptic. Sometimes I think it’s best not to say anything but when you know you’re going to win a hand, surely a little speech play couldn’t hurt?
The same action took place on the turn - a meaningless 9s. He bet $1,500 which I matched as a deceptive look appeared on my face.
The river, Jc, was dealt which would do nothing to deter either of us from placing our chips in the middle if we each believed our hand to be best. I checked once again (as I couldn’t believe he could still call a bet) and for the third time, my opponent made a bet - for all his chips.
He announced ‘all-in’ with unnerving confidence. I checked my hand and still only one hand (quad twos) could beat me. I instantly called and a $15,800 pot was shipped my way. To the more advanced poker players, I am perfectly aware that this is the most standard of hands and I at least could have made up a more interesting one.
Firstly, I want to keep to the facts. Secondly, it’s important to document my winnings along my route into the abyss as otherwise this would be one long rant about endless losses. Finally, this hand kick started an outstanding night - a night like no other.
When you’re running hot, some people go with the flow and expect the profits to keep coming. I was of the mind-set that each pot was a separate entity and I needed to show the same level of concentration on every hand.
During a quiet period I went for a cigarette outside on the terrace where I could collect my thoughts. I was joined by a man of Middle Eastern descent who proceeded to tell me the most ludicrous story about his misfortune. He was mumbling something about placing his chips on number 32 but number 33 had come up.
Obviously the man the man was a moron - 32 and 33 are not next to each other on the wheel, but he inhabited the same dream world I had lived in for most of the time.
It was churlish of me to patronise him. But I did. I told him about the casino edge and how he could never hope to win at roulette in the long term. Everything I told him was true and yet during the worst periods of my degeneracy I had ignored these facts.
Roulette was a mug’s game, as was virtual horses as was betting on any sport on which you do not possess more knowledge than the bookmaker. Speaking to this imbecile bemoaning his luck when it was his own damn fault brought about a moment of clarity. Poker was a skill game and if it didn’t work out, I’d focus on my main talent, football. No shame in giving something a go if it’s for the right reasons.
I arrived back at the table to the wonderful sight of the fish fully reloaded. He had $10,000 and shortly it would be coming my way. My stack grew and grew, drawing comments from people I didn’t know about how large it was. I put the obvious innuendos to one side as I had business to attend to. I gave the impression I was a wealthy tourist looking for a good time but the chips were sailing to my end of the table over and over again. By the time the game broke I was sitting on $50,000 and sought higher stakes to capitalise on my form.
‘Aye aye mate! That bum bag is looking pretty heavy to me!’ Simmo and a couple of the lads were steaming drunk.
‘Yeah, Doyle’s been teaching me well. Up about 40k. Next round’s on me.’
‘Drinks are free here for us. They must think we’re real numpties, getting pissed and jizzing away our money.’ Simmo was slurring his words. ‘We’re going to a club mate, wanna join us? I’m all bacaracarated out! Wahehey!’
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do mate. I’m gonna stay and crush here.’
At approximately 2am I joined the big boys. The $50-$100 game was full of professionals liking the scent which wafted their way as I took my seat. They could smell money. As I had reserve funds in the trusty bum bag, I ponied up the $50,000 which was an average buy-in for these stakes. Soon the heat was on as I became involved in an enormous pot.
I had a called a raise with two eights or ‘the snowmen’ and was initially overjoyed with the flop of 3c 8c 9h.
I had flopped what is known as ‘a set’ and was 99 per cent likely to have the best hand at the time (99 would be ahead). A young professional with shades and an mp3 player shovelled in a rack of chips. I quickly raised to feign a moment of impulsive bluffing. To my surprise, he called, placing me in an awkward position. I had given away the strength of my hand and there were still two remaining cards to be dealt. The turn was a scary Jc. This brought a possible straight or flush which were both ahead of my three eights.
The pro again picked a large stack of grey flags (5k chips) and placed them in the middle of the table. I was in no mood to fold allowing him to scoop an already massive pot. I called. The river was a Queen of spades adding more possible hands I could be losing to. My nemesis pulled down his shades and removed his headphones and announced the words ‘All-in’. He pushed his remaining stack into the middle giving away precisely nothing. Everything I’d worked for during the evening thus far would hinge on me making the correct play here but I had no idea what to do. My hand was above average in strength but professionals don’t do stupid things and it would appear that attempting to bluff me was poor judgement.
Sweating heavily, all eyes were on me with neighbouring tables stopping in mid-game to await the conclusion of the hand. I told the professional I could not decide what to do and needed some extra time when an old Korean lady ‘called the clock’. This allowed me just a minute to ponder a decision. A real low blow from someone who wasn’t even involved in the hand.
‘You have one minute’, said the dealer. I believe he mumbled an apology but at the time I couldn’t be sure.
Now poker is a lot like sex. Firstly, you never want to get it in behind and position is very important. As we delve deeper into the sexual world (as I had done), we begin to see all types. The poker table houses people who can’t get and those who give it out all the time. Tight and loose players if you will. This Korean lady looked like she’d dish it out for a minimum buy-in. ****ing whore.
‘What is wrong with you? ****ing whore. What has this hand got to do with you?’ Yeah, I’d lost it, but she deserved it.
‘Wha me? I’m sorry but you take too much time. I want gamble.’
It just popped out - I’d deal with the ensuing penalty after the hand. A floorman had been called over for this specific duty. But as the seconds ticked by I was no closer to making the call or fold.
Screw it - the coin would decide. Heads I call, tails I fold – it really was a 50:50 decision. I flicked it in the air with enough air-time to gauge the reactions of the table. They were shocked. I called with five seconds remaining and my opponent sheepishly threw his cards into the dealer’s pile. ‘Good call, I had nothing’. I turned over my three eights and scooped a $125,000 pot! I now had a bankroll to do some serious damage on the casino which represented the bookmaking world as far as I was concerned.
And so began the rollercoaster which made me a dollar millionaire in the Wynn. I was ushered between high-roller blackjack and craps tables (I swerved the roulette on principle) registering steady profits all the while banking money I couldn’t touch. I was shoving cranberries (25k chips) into my bum bag with the same skill that Pants had shown when he comped me my suite.
The cranberry tree kept on producing fruit – and to this day cranberry juice is one of my favourite drinks!
I quit at my peak placing a million dollars in the safe at the Wynn with Michael personally vouching for its safety.
I missed Ella but mostly wanted to celebrate. If she had been in Vegas, there would have been no foreplay from my side. I had earned a great victory which needed congratulations from any female besides the Korean downstairs.
I could hardly ask Michael to take care of such business and so I tried to make a coded conversation with a youngish night-shift concierge.
I told him: ‘I’m looking for some late night entertainment; something live if you know what I mean.’
‘I’m not sure there’s anything on at the moment, sir, although there might be a live baseball game on telly from Japan. They kick off late over there as I understand it.’
‘No, I don’t want to watch baseball. I’m looking for something a bit more live than that.’
‘Ah, I see what you mean’, replied the concierge, his thoughts concentrated by the dollar bills I had just pressed into his palm.
‘That’s 800 for the girl and two hundred for yourself.’
He gratefully accepted the four Benjamins. I doubt Benjamin Franklin, whose face appeared on these hundred dollar bills, would have approved of the transaction.
My ‘reward’ arrived at half-past three in the morning wearing a long beige overcoat and little else. I am not going to get into a debate about ethics regarding the exploitation of women although now I’m ashamed of my actions.
When you’re in a hole, everything in life whether it be football or women pales in comparison to your monetary state. I had won over a million dollars in an evening so forgive me if morals were ignored though I had matured (slightly).
The sex was a bit mechanical to say the least. The adrenalin was still coursing through my veins like a river in full spate, but I couldn’t really get going despite the efforts of my partner for the evening trying to give value for money!
I couldn’t help turning over the final hands which had brought me to the peak of my financial powers. I played those same hands over and over again. Once or twice I even made the wrong calls, but I knew I hadn’t.
Eventually, I dropped off into a fitful sleep and awoke the next morning with my unnamed partner sleeping peacefully with her back to me. I thought about waking her for one final session, but decided against it. I took a shower instead, trying to cleanse myself of all that had happened in the last five or six hours.
I felt better and was glad to see that my evening’s entertainment was getting dressed when I emerged from the shower.
Even at this hour of the morning, she looked more like a million dollars than I did. But the difference was that I really was worth a million dollars, while she’d earned eight hundred hundred dollars for her night’s work. I suppose it’s all relative. The irony of course is that if I’d never gambled in my life, I’d have had the same amount tucked away. But this was much more fun.
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I wanted so much to tell all my mates how much I’d won – that’s what all gamblers love to do, advertise the winnings, keep schtum about the losses, but I chose to keep it all under wraps. Firstly, I didn’t want to steal Simmo’s thunder with news of my good fortune and, secondly, knowing my luck it could all have been gone by the morrow.
Money safely under lock and key, I re-joined the stag party, eagerly awaiting a game of golf. We would be drinking from 10am until 7am the following day so we wolfed down a full English to line the stomach.
We arrived at the newly built Bali Hai Golf Club, conveniently located on the Vegas Strip. $100 was a snip considering the amount I’d won the night before and I paid for a few others including Simmo.
I hooked, sliced and duffed my way to the seventh hole but my scorecard wasn’t looking too shabby. This was my fourth time ever playing but my hand-eye coordination fought against my horrendous technique and was winning. At the turn, I was keeping up with my teammates, on course to posting a possible below-par score (post-handicap adjustment). But after a Gerry Adams (playing a provisional) and an Adolf (two shots in the bunker), my score began to reach triple figures. I faced a Dennis Wise (nasty five-footer) on every hole at some point with every putt a Cuban (needing one more revolution). At the 17th, I Princess Di’d it – I shouldn’t have taken the driver! At the 18th, I hit a Sally Gunnell (ugly but a good runner) and after an OJ Simpson (guess the meaning yourselves) was now left with a Diego Maradona – A very nasty five footer! It was a real Salman Rushdie (an impossible read) and I stroked an Elton John (a big bender that hits the rim). As the crowd on the 19th hole terrace looked on, I tapped in for a respectable 137 – at the time 60 over par!
As much fun as I was having, golfing and later paintballing and quad biking, seemed so pointless compared to chasing another million. At the time I felt disappointed that I could not let go and enjoy myself but the addiction was strong, ever-present and slowly drawing me to the tables. But I tried to focus on all the entertainment Vegas had to offer.
Michael then called me during the afternoon informing me about an even bigger game than the night before. It was his responsibility to keep money flowing into the casino and as far as his bosses were concerned my money was as good as any of the other whales constantly going broke at the Wynn. I was trying to avoid the casino but they don’t half make it difficult!
Alcohol was the final of the four vices to be experienced in large quantities. My drunkeness barrier which was usually at five pints (due to my good level of fitness) was decimated sometime around 9pm. I staggered around The Strip like a dribbling zombie, not yet detached from the rest of our intoxicated group.
‘I fagugging lurrrrrv you man!!’ Simmo wanted to tell me he loved me but he was completely sozzled and slurred his words.
‘Love you too big man. Fancy a lappers?’
‘I’m all over that sh-sh-****. The missus won’t mind will she?’
‘Course not Simmo. You’re going to be a good boy in there aren’t ya.’
‘GET ME IN THERE.’ Simmo started running.
We barged into Spearmint Rhinos, the name being the closest we came to any kind of nature. From Spearmint we travelled to Larry Flint’s and then finally to Badda Bing, where Edward had planned a special surprise for Simmo. Propped up by two of his teammates, Simmo was led to a private room populated by three strippers. Each was wearing an extremely racy bridal outfit putting us all in the mood for a wedding – and more. Luckily there have been many stag dos to Las Vegas and Simmo’s identity cannot be easily guessed though the man turned into an animal that night.
With his head buried between three pairs of bosoms, they tore off his clothing. As his clothes were being removed Simmo began to protest – rather weakly I have to say - but that only spurred us on to encourage him to carry on.
In the end, he capitulated, stuffing hundreds of dollars (contributed by me) into their thongs. They performed an indescribable sex-act on Simmo although I never saw the finish. Some things are just wrong although Edward seemed to be transfixed.
At some point during the small hours of the next day I became detached from the group with a familiar force dragging me back to the casino. My problems were all but solved with this latest win-streak but a gambler never quits. Life is one long punt down the River Fortuna.
I was in no position to concentrate on playing cards but I couldn’t resist the alluring action of the craps table.
Within half an hour I was holding the dice, and at the same time, my fate. I cashed in a marker of $200,000 saving a large proportion of the million dollars. My towering stack hand dwindled to just a few thousand before I turned my attention to blackjack to break the losing cycle.
Another two markers cashed in, I was ushered to the high roller room. I intended to bet $50,000 a hand. I was informed by the floor-man that Kobe Bryant was down an ungodly amount and was not to be approached.
After a couple of losing bets, I demanded to see Michael. I waited by the cage, itching to bet as I knew my luck was going to turn around.
‘I understand you need me? Is everything alright?’
‘Yes and no. I’m 600 large in the hole. I need the other 400!
‘That’s not a problem but I have to ask you if you’re sure. My bosses wouldn’t be happy with me telling you this, but I think you’ve gambled enough.’
‘Go big or go home. My step-dad always taught me that.’
‘I’ll release the money but why did you call me? You could have just cashed in your markers.’
‘I need you to approve the bet. All 400k’s going on one hand.’
‘I’ll sort it now. Best of luck. But if it loses, don’t chase. I’ve seen many ruin their lives here and my brother tells me you’re a good guy.’
‘I won’t be able to chase.’
Pants laughed assuming I was joking.
I was given four chips and strode into the high rollers section, preparing to shove Kobe aside if he got in the way of me getting even. People were looking, pointing and whispering but they were an irrelevance. My only concern was the $400,000 I placed in the box. I was gambling money it would take an average person over ten years to earn. My mother would be absolutely disgusted. But even she could not have stopped me.
Blackjack would have been a nice stroke of luck but I was cursed. I looked down to see a miserable 9 and 6, making the dreaded total of 15. Worse still, the dealer was showing a bastardly jack of hearts. He was winking at me as is his custom. For someone confident in cards, odds and percentages, I was at a complete loss what to do. However, since just the dealer and I were playing, the solution is simple. If I ‘hit’ and I’m dealt a seven or higher (and hence go bust), the dealer would have reached 17, 18, 19, 20 or 21 if I did not hit. Damned if I do, broke if I don’t. So I had to gamble. ‘Hit me’. I told the dealer to turn over the card slowly. He nodded approvingly, acknowledging how a gambler wants value for money. Dealers are not given profit-related bonuses by the casino and so it was not unexpected that this dealer wanted me to win.
I was dealt a bitch, the Queen of spades, sending me bust and back to the cheap seats. Throughout all the losing I’d rarely reacted but a reaction was necessary or there was no hope. Feeling numb, having lost a million dollars in a matter of hours was unacceptable. I did what any respectable loser would do and blamed the deck of cards. I reached over and grabbed the shoe containing the remaining cards and removed a handful. I ripped everyone to shreds and threw the shoe at the wall smashing a chandelier in the process. Holding my hands up, I was escorted from the building though the floor staff completely understood. In fact they were so understanding that they didn’t bother to hang around for a tip.
If someone hasn’t said it already when referring to gambling, I hope it becomes a catchphrase: ‘Everything means nothing whilst gambling’.
The whole night ran contrary to my earlier thoughts, planning, hopes and dreams. I’d first started gambling as I believed I had an edge (on football). I then gambled to chase the money I’d lost whilst not having an edge. Finally, I planned to achieve profit through meticulous and cautious poker play, all for nothing as I failed to listen to my more sensible angel perched on my epaulet.
Years too late I was told that ‘winnings are infinite, losses are finite.’ I’d achieved the amount I believed would make me happy and yet had gambled it all back. I can’t even blame the drink. I had a problem. Still do. We are gamblers for life. In essence, for the addicts, no matter the amount won, it will never be enough. However, when you hit rock-bottom, it’s real. Oh, you’ll scratch around, falling deeper and deeper but there is an end. For some it’s just a failed relationship or having to move into cheaper accommodation. For others, a great deal worse lies in wait. Read on.
I left Vegas with just one coin, the coin which I had failed to use in my hour of need. Oh and Simmo got married a week later.
2003/2004 Season stats
Games started: 12
Subbed in 4:
Goals: 3
Assists: 2
Yellow Cards: 3
Red Cards: 1 (yellow/red)
Money in Bradford & Bingley: £-£3,500
Money owed to Cedric: £250,000
Profit/Loss: -£280,000
High Point: +£670,000
Low Point: All of it
Coke habit: Average 3 lines per day
LOSS VEGAS
Simmo approached me after training one morning and told me to clear my schedule during a rare upcoming weekend off due to an International break. Years earlier this wouldn’t have been an option for Simmo, who was in and out of the England squad, but his best days were well behind him now. Ella understood. She realised it was more team bonding than James Bonding!
I’d been to Barcelona and to Magaluf but ladies and gentlemen, I was off to Las Vegas - the home of endless antithesis. The rich gamble alongside the poor. For every millionaire, there’s a bum on the streets. For every big winner, there’s an even bigger loser. There are as many degenerates incredulous as to their good fortune as those cursing their bad luck. In fact, there was an excellent chance I’d stay there for life. If Wembley is considered the Mecca for football fans, Las Vegas is definitely the Wailing Wall for degenerates. I couldn’t wait to get to Vegas and in between the compulsory stag-do activities, I had planned my gambling meticulously in the hope of registering a much-needed profit. With any luck, a now retired Tyson would be there. A gambler never forgets.
Seven relatively famous people and three unknowns took off late Friday evening for a two-day gambling bonanza. Hollow had made the cut as a member of the post-25 club whilst Wheezy and Jonno were left on the sidelines for maturity and popularity reasons respectively. I was excited but the group’s noobish enthusiasm began to annoy me. ‘Black 17, yeah that’s my number’; ‘You gotta split kings when the dealer shows a 7’; and my favourite ‘There can never be more than seven reds or blacks in a row - I’m going to double up until I win. Easy money!’ I don’t believe I need to explain to the gamblers among you what this last statement refers to. For those who don’t know, there is a theory called ‘Martingale’ which advocates placing double the previous bet on the same selection until you win. For instance, you place £5 on red. If it wins, you win £5. If it loses, you place £10 on red. If this wins, you win £10 but lose the original £5 - £5 profit. If this loses you place £20 (-£10 and -£5). Rinse and repeat. The only problem is that if you lose eight times in a row, you would need to place £1,280 to win your original £5 back. ‘It works’ I hear you cry, if you have unlimited money. Well, firstly, you don’t. Secondly, casinos have maximum limits; and, lastly, if you had the needed £5,242,880 (after losing twenty times consecutively) to win your original fiver back, you wouldn’t need to gamble to win a fiver. This may be confusing but my advice is anyone who suggests using Martingale is a ****ing idiot.
Also, Martingale committed suicide and if that wasn’t enough to put you off using his system, a casino in Monte Carlo holds the record for 36 blacks in a row on roulette. I would not be Martingaling anything. I had £25,000 in my bum bag and figured £1m was a reasonable goal. Yes, I was wearing a bum bag. All the pros do!
A friend had bought me some airplane reading and during check-in I got stuck in. ‘The Dice Man’ was a fairly popular book in the late eighties with its central theme focusing on decisions being made purely through the roll of a dice. This intrigued me since much of my gambling was based on chance. Even in games such as poker, I had often been unsure of what play to make and ‘flipped a coin in my head’. Just two chapters in I decided to commit the ultimate degenerate lifestyle choice. Whilst in Vegas, I would make every important decision flipping a coin. This weekend was filling a void in my life - the inevitable gambling quenching my thirst for action. But this was not enough. Now, everything would be down to luck although the dealers, the strippers and even the trolley dollies would have to wait an extra five seconds before I committed to a decision.
My first opportunity arrived during the flight. We were flying first-class although we’d subsidised the non-footballers’ air fares. I felt rather nauseous shelling out £2,500 for a seat on a plane but Vegas was not a place to be thrifty. I’d win it back anyway, right? I was offered a tall glass of champagne or a glass of a particularly fine Merlot. Being the first time I’d let fate decide my course of action, I felt no embarrassment in flipping a £1 coin in front of the gorgeous stewardess. It dropped to the floor as crickets began to play out-of-tune violins in the background. She must have been thinking I was over the flying limit or just a tad strange, when I saw the shining head of Queen Elizabeth gleaming in the dimly-lit surroundings. ‘Champagne’ I announced, sounding as if none of other passengers were worthy of such a beverage. ‘Right away sir’ came the reply and I was literally off to a flyer.
The movies I watched en route were decided by the gods. I was also denied sleep by those cruel divinities, instead commanded to participate in group games with my fellow passengers. There had been no gambling throughout the first quarter of the flight but it was all was about to change. Simmo’s best man, a civilian by the name of Edward, introduced an outstanding game of chance, sure to satisfy even the most hardened of gamblers.
This was a head-to-head match designed for maximum damage. Simmo and I were instructed to find a paperback novel (I had my copy of The Dice Man) and turn to a random page selected by Edward. We were then to multiply the number of ‘and’s’ by the number of ‘the’s’ on our particular page but to keep the figure secret. On this occasion, I had a particularly lengthy piece of dialogue and therefore the exact count was just ‘six and’s’ x ‘five the’s’ for a total of 30. The next step is to guesstimate our opponents’ number and multiply the two final totals together. We would then be entering into a ‘hidden auction’ whereby I write down a number as would Simmo. Whoever is lowest is ‘selling’ and whoever is highest is ‘buying’. If you’re struggling, all will become clear. The stakes were £1 per point.
I have a total of 30 which I figured was a low count. If my opponent has 50 our combined total would be 1,500. This seemed reasonable enough and allowed some margin for profit if he was particularly low. Anyway, I opted for 1,500, Simmo wrote down 3,000 and the final figure was 1,344. I was selling at 1,500 (as I was lowest) and had therefore made a cool £156.
I instantly presumed I possessed an edge (just as I had when I won my first bet all those years ago). Edward suggested another game - how could I refuse? Simmo, licking his wounds, subbed Edward in and announced the random number with a touch of bitterness. As I perused the page, I realised I had stumbled upon a monster. The page was littered with ‘and’s’ and ‘the’s’ which had the potential for meaningful profits. Since my count was approximately 350, if his page contained an average total (or what I believed to be an average) of 80, the end count would be 28,000! Assuming I won the ‘buy’ side with a larger than average bid, I could be looking at £10,000. Simmo had already agreed to stand Edward’s losses and therefore guilt was not an issue. I opted for a high estimate of 15,000. It was imperative for me to have the highest number of the two of us but the profits needed to be considered.
Though I had an edge in this bet (any extreme count situation ensures an edge), it was important not to bid too high as this would decrease the gains on a pastime which would not be lasting long. This was all about maximisation of resources, preparing me for Vegas.
Sitting opposite each other on a four-seater table, we both looked smug. I passed my number to Simmo as did Edward. I blurted out 15,000 unable to control my excitement. Edward announced ‘10,000’ with a calmness which could only mean one thing. He’d heard my high number and knew I was ‘buying’ - he must have a very low number on his page and had ****ed me. Sure enough Edward revealed page 124 of his John Grisham novel picked up just hours earlier. The page was blank except for the words ‘Chapter 8’. The combined total of both our ‘and’s’ and ‘the’s’ was an incredible zero. Edward had read my expressions and believed my number to be high. He was therefore able to milk me dry, extracting the maximum. I owed £10,000 to someone I’d met just hours earlier due to a stupid game involving the words ‘and’ and ‘the’. This was not in the plan. The bankroll had been reduced to a paltry £15,000 - the million looked a long, long way off.
We touched down at McCarran International in Las Vegas at 9pm local time.
Most airports look the same to me. But this one was a little different. This was Vegas remember and it has earned its title of Sin City and works hard to hang on to its reputation.
It was like walking into a giant, shiny casino. There were slots everywhere – as far as the eye could see. I’m told there are more than 1,200 of the damn things. So with more than 50 million passengers passing through each year there’s probably a queue at each of them as travellers wait in line to lose their cash along with their self-respect.
I’ve always found slots a complete waste of time and space. Even I, a dedicated and addicted gambler, know you can’t win. Yes, you get a good run for your money, but in the end it’s your money that runs out.
But I wasn’t worried about that right now. The addiction began to stir in the pit of my stomach as I found myself confronted – more like overwhelmed – by a haven of gambling outlets. Like I said, slots never interested me and failed to engage my interest at the arrivals lounge. Winning the jackpot was almost as unlikely as winning the lottery and I had no desire to feed thousands of quarters into a machine.
Think of the repetitive strain injury not to mention that it would ruin my street cred. Only old ladies play the slots and there was proper, hardcore gambling to be done.
Activities were planned for the following day and so this was a free evening of sorts. There is nothing free about Vegas though. They take your money straight away and call back for your soul a little later.
We were staying at the Wynn, which like every well-established hotel had a casino along with a card room. I would most certainly be visiting both - the former for craps, the latter to crap all over my opponents.
We had booked two five-bedroom suites beforehand but I had an ace up my sleeve, ready to be played in the home of the card deck. The Wynn happened to be the place of work of a friend’s brother, Michael. He was the card room/comps manager and everyone knew him as Pants. He had received this nickname being the twin brother of a friend affectionately known as Trousers.
Pants had been working at the Wynn for a number of years and had a fair amount of jurisdiction over comping rooms and chips at the tables. I sauntered over to the front desk, unzipping my bum bag as I approached the concierges. I waved behind me to nine of the Vegas X effectively telling them ‘watch this’. I chuckled as I approached the desk thinking of the horrendous collection of Hawaiian shirts and awful suit tie combos.
‘Hi….Jamie’ I said as caught sight of a female concierge’s name tag, trying to not to ogle the tremendous cleavage on offer. I imagined it was there to be viewed but I didn’t want to embarrass her.
‘Hey there. How can I help you?’ Now I thought Jamie was checking me out.
‘I’m looking for Michael Lloyd - is he around?’
‘He’s very busy sir. Can I take a message? I’ll be sure to pass it on.’
As many of you will know, tipping is a way of life in Vegas with everyone from the valets and floor-men to the dealers getting backhanders from punters. For dropping $20 here and there you’re treated better than those who don’t. If the rest of the world worked like that, only the rich would get their way. About right then.
I went for a fifty dollar note and deftly slid it over to Jamie’s beautifully manicured hands. Each of her nails were a different colour which I would later find out represented each of the chips housed at the Wynn. Jamie’s ample bosoms, heaving between her third undone button from the Wynn’s uniform, were crying out for the $50 but I wanted a penthouse suite, not to be frogmarched out by security!
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Jamie winked at me.
Five minutes later and after at least three insults from the impatient gamblers behind, Pants pulled up. He was a young man but oozed experience. He knew how to take care of degenerates. His demeanour was welcoming without being patronising even though his job was effectively to comp losers or whales as they are referred to. I was a loser but to Michael, I was a good friend of his brother’s and I expected him to carry out his duties to the same high standard I’d heard about.
After exchanging pleasantries for a short time about the nature of our trip, we got down to business.
‘So what can I do for you?’ Pants must have asked this question a thousand times. I wondered what the success rate was. I intended the percentage to increase.
‘Bit cheeky to ask but can you hook us up with a penthouse suite. We’re going to be gambling quite a bit in this gaff.’
‘Well, as it happens, we have a couple of penthouse suites going spare. No extra charge as long as you put in some time on the floor. You’ll have champagne waiting for you in there and the butler’s in the lodge at the end of the hall.’
I felt embarrassed tipping Michael but I was tremendously grateful not least because the lads were impressed. So I engineered a situation where I could put The Dice Man into practice. We descended to the casino floor, with my bum bag at the ready.
I pulled out two $100 - ‘C-notes’ - and told Michael they was going on red (after flipping my lucky coin). He would keep the lot if we were lucky in exchange for his help. Red 36 is always a particularly popular number for some reason. Irrelevant, because it landed on Red 7. I proudly placed $400 worth of chips in Michael’s hand. For once in Vegas, a transaction had been completed with neither party being shafted. Pants trousered his prize deftly with all the skill of a man who received such back-handers on a regular basis.
He wished me luck at the tables and told me not to hesitate to ask him for anything I might need - a true professional.
Our troop of ten, a pod of whales, ascended forty-two floors to check out our digs. Personally, I was determined to make the most of it and plucked a Jack Daniels (champagne was saved for when I’d won) from the mini-bar, despite the fact that it probably cost three or four times as much as it did in Sainsbury’s. Anyway, I thought, perhaps drinks would be part of the deal. After all, we had a butler chucked in for free. But, really, I didn’t care one way or the other. I felt I was going to win – and win big. Just like everyone else in the hotel, I suppose. But as luxurious as my accommodation was I wasn’t going to be spending much time there. I had work to do.
Ocean’s 10 swam to the floor with our appetite whetted for hardcore gambling. The pod split up to cover all areas of the casino. I noticed Simmo and Edward headed for the roulette wheel, whilst Hollow brooded over the baccarat table. The others opted for casino stud, craps and blackjack. Though I’d gambled and lost more than the rest of the crew put together, I felt superior. I knew the odds and winning was extremely unlikely. Poker was the only option where I could use skill to decimate the bankrolls of other ‘gamblers’ rather than attempting to dent the coffers of the Wynn. Steve Wynn drank his morning orange juice from a 24-carat gold, diamond encrusted goblet. I doubted anyone had even got close to breaking the bank.
It didn’t take me long to locate my table of choice. There were a couple of obvious tourist-types with check shirts and ten-gallon hats, ordering beers in loud voices. They were either very good actors or guaranteed losers. After watching them play two or three hands they were clearly in the latter category.
Then there was the older man out on the loose – his wife probably back home oblivious to what he was up to – and cozying up to a peroxide blonde about a third of his age. Both of them had their assets on show – he had a pile of chips the size of the Empire State Building, while her best feature – features – were on show thanks to an expensive low-cut dress. She’d be flashing the flesh while he was flashing the cash. Another guaranteed loser.
The two others at the table were harder to read. There was a business type in a smart suit, who didn’t look like a regular on the circuit and a modestly dressed woman who was going quietly about her business without attracting too much attention. I did hear someone murmuring that her name was Kathy – a well-established professional. After watching for another fifteen minutes or so, I reckoned the businessman wasn’t much of a threat, but the woman could play. So I worked out the odds. They were in my favour. Five opponents, but only one of them with a real chance. There was a spare seat and one of the Texan loudmouths shouted over to
me: ‘Come and join us buddy.’
I hesitated for a minute, not wanting to show I was desperate to join their table, but eventually I sat down and asked for $5,000 in chips from the floorman.
I was comfortably rolled for this game and could play without fear of losing my buy-in. This was an advantage I intended to exploit as I saw ‘scared money’ (players afraid to lose a big pot) at the table.
For this next paragraph you will need a limited understanding of no-limit Texas hold ’em, which is considered the purest form of poker. I’m writing this for gamblers first and foremost and must give them the content they desire.
Approximately forty minutes into my session I was up $2,000 or so. I picked up two black aces in early position and I opted only to call the blinds, instead of raising. A loose player raised to $150 which allowed me to then re-raise to $500. This somewhat gave the strength of my hand away but the fish was in no mood to fold. The sum of $1,000 was now in the pot and the flop arrived 2c 2h Ah. I now had a full-house, near unbeatable. In fact, I had such a strong hand that it was difficult for my opponent to have anything.
I had what we refer to in the poker world as the nizzles. The nuts, the absolute best hand (if you discount the unlikely quad twos). You have to worry when as a man you dream about nuts and flops but they are essential to winning. Seeing flops and hitting them hard is just a part of poker.
I decided to check to allow my opponent to bluff instead of scaring him off with a big bet.
‘Over to you, boss.’ I lightly tapped my knuckles on the table – the universal sign of checking. A check is a play that tells the player, I’m not ready to bet but I might call or even raise once facing a bet.
The carp duly obliged with a bet of $1,000 which I presume was intended to make me fold. As long as there was no earthquake and the dealer wasn’t on the take, I would be winning this hand.
I hesitated for some time before calling his bet.
‘What’chu got?’ asked the loosey goosey.
‘Not much. I’m not going to let you bully me though!’ That’s me being cryptic. Sometimes I think it’s best not to say anything but when you know you’re going to win a hand, surely a little speech play couldn’t hurt?
The same action took place on the turn - a meaningless 9s. He bet $1,500 which I matched as a deceptive look appeared on my face.
The river, Jc, was dealt which would do nothing to deter either of us from placing our chips in the middle if we each believed our hand to be best. I checked once again (as I couldn’t believe he could still call a bet) and for the third time, my opponent made a bet - for all his chips.
He announced ‘all-in’ with unnerving confidence. I checked my hand and still only one hand (quad twos) could beat me. I instantly called and a $15,800 pot was shipped my way. To the more advanced poker players, I am perfectly aware that this is the most standard of hands and I at least could have made up a more interesting one.
Firstly, I want to keep to the facts. Secondly, it’s important to document my winnings along my route into the abyss as otherwise this would be one long rant about endless losses. Finally, this hand kick started an outstanding night - a night like no other.
When you’re running hot, some people go with the flow and expect the profits to keep coming. I was of the mind-set that each pot was a separate entity and I needed to show the same level of concentration on every hand.
During a quiet period I went for a cigarette outside on the terrace where I could collect my thoughts. I was joined by a man of Middle Eastern descent who proceeded to tell me the most ludicrous story about his misfortune. He was mumbling something about placing his chips on number 32 but number 33 had come up.
Obviously the man the man was a moron - 32 and 33 are not next to each other on the wheel, but he inhabited the same dream world I had lived in for most of the time.
It was churlish of me to patronise him. But I did. I told him about the casino edge and how he could never hope to win at roulette in the long term. Everything I told him was true and yet during the worst periods of my degeneracy I had ignored these facts.
Roulette was a mug’s game, as was virtual horses as was betting on any sport on which you do not possess more knowledge than the bookmaker. Speaking to this imbecile bemoaning his luck when it was his own damn fault brought about a moment of clarity. Poker was a skill game and if it didn’t work out, I’d focus on my main talent, football. No shame in giving something a go if it’s for the right reasons.
I arrived back at the table to the wonderful sight of the fish fully reloaded. He had $10,000 and shortly it would be coming my way. My stack grew and grew, drawing comments from people I didn’t know about how large it was. I put the obvious innuendos to one side as I had business to attend to. I gave the impression I was a wealthy tourist looking for a good time but the chips were sailing to my end of the table over and over again. By the time the game broke I was sitting on $50,000 and sought higher stakes to capitalise on my form.
‘Aye aye mate! That bum bag is looking pretty heavy to me!’ Simmo and a couple of the lads were steaming drunk.
‘Yeah, Doyle’s been teaching me well. Up about 40k. Next round’s on me.’
‘Drinks are free here for us. They must think we’re real numpties, getting pissed and jizzing away our money.’ Simmo was slurring his words. ‘We’re going to a club mate, wanna join us? I’m all bacaracarated out! Wahehey!’
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do mate. I’m gonna stay and crush here.’
At approximately 2am I joined the big boys. The $50-$100 game was full of professionals liking the scent which wafted their way as I took my seat. They could smell money. As I had reserve funds in the trusty bum bag, I ponied up the $50,000 which was an average buy-in for these stakes. Soon the heat was on as I became involved in an enormous pot.
I had a called a raise with two eights or ‘the snowmen’ and was initially overjoyed with the flop of 3c 8c 9h.
I had flopped what is known as ‘a set’ and was 99 per cent likely to have the best hand at the time (99 would be ahead). A young professional with shades and an mp3 player shovelled in a rack of chips. I quickly raised to feign a moment of impulsive bluffing. To my surprise, he called, placing me in an awkward position. I had given away the strength of my hand and there were still two remaining cards to be dealt. The turn was a scary Jc. This brought a possible straight or flush which were both ahead of my three eights.
The pro again picked a large stack of grey flags (5k chips) and placed them in the middle of the table. I was in no mood to fold allowing him to scoop an already massive pot. I called. The river was a Queen of spades adding more possible hands I could be losing to. My nemesis pulled down his shades and removed his headphones and announced the words ‘All-in’. He pushed his remaining stack into the middle giving away precisely nothing. Everything I’d worked for during the evening thus far would hinge on me making the correct play here but I had no idea what to do. My hand was above average in strength but professionals don’t do stupid things and it would appear that attempting to bluff me was poor judgement.
Sweating heavily, all eyes were on me with neighbouring tables stopping in mid-game to await the conclusion of the hand. I told the professional I could not decide what to do and needed some extra time when an old Korean lady ‘called the clock’. This allowed me just a minute to ponder a decision. A real low blow from someone who wasn’t even involved in the hand.
‘You have one minute’, said the dealer. I believe he mumbled an apology but at the time I couldn’t be sure.
Now poker is a lot like sex. Firstly, you never want to get it in behind and position is very important. As we delve deeper into the sexual world (as I had done), we begin to see all types. The poker table houses people who can’t get and those who give it out all the time. Tight and loose players if you will. This Korean lady looked like she’d dish it out for a minimum buy-in. ****ing whore.
‘What is wrong with you? ****ing whore. What has this hand got to do with you?’ Yeah, I’d lost it, but she deserved it.
‘Wha me? I’m sorry but you take too much time. I want gamble.’
It just popped out - I’d deal with the ensuing penalty after the hand. A floorman had been called over for this specific duty. But as the seconds ticked by I was no closer to making the call or fold.
Screw it - the coin would decide. Heads I call, tails I fold – it really was a 50:50 decision. I flicked it in the air with enough air-time to gauge the reactions of the table. They were shocked. I called with five seconds remaining and my opponent sheepishly threw his cards into the dealer’s pile. ‘Good call, I had nothing’. I turned over my three eights and scooped a $125,000 pot! I now had a bankroll to do some serious damage on the casino which represented the bookmaking world as far as I was concerned.
And so began the rollercoaster which made me a dollar millionaire in the Wynn. I was ushered between high-roller blackjack and craps tables (I swerved the roulette on principle) registering steady profits all the while banking money I couldn’t touch. I was shoving cranberries (25k chips) into my bum bag with the same skill that Pants had shown when he comped me my suite.
The cranberry tree kept on producing fruit – and to this day cranberry juice is one of my favourite drinks!
I quit at my peak placing a million dollars in the safe at the Wynn with Michael personally vouching for its safety.
I missed Ella but mostly wanted to celebrate. If she had been in Vegas, there would have been no foreplay from my side. I had earned a great victory which needed congratulations from any female besides the Korean downstairs.
I could hardly ask Michael to take care of such business and so I tried to make a coded conversation with a youngish night-shift concierge.
I told him: ‘I’m looking for some late night entertainment; something live if you know what I mean.’
‘I’m not sure there’s anything on at the moment, sir, although there might be a live baseball game on telly from Japan. They kick off late over there as I understand it.’
‘No, I don’t want to watch baseball. I’m looking for something a bit more live than that.’
‘Ah, I see what you mean’, replied the concierge, his thoughts concentrated by the dollar bills I had just pressed into his palm.
‘That’s 800 for the girl and two hundred for yourself.’
He gratefully accepted the four Benjamins. I doubt Benjamin Franklin, whose face appeared on these hundred dollar bills, would have approved of the transaction.
My ‘reward’ arrived at half-past three in the morning wearing a long beige overcoat and little else. I am not going to get into a debate about ethics regarding the exploitation of women although now I’m ashamed of my actions.
When you’re in a hole, everything in life whether it be football or women pales in comparison to your monetary state. I had won over a million dollars in an evening so forgive me if morals were ignored though I had matured (slightly).
The sex was a bit mechanical to say the least. The adrenalin was still coursing through my veins like a river in full spate, but I couldn’t really get going despite the efforts of my partner for the evening trying to give value for money!
I couldn’t help turning over the final hands which had brought me to the peak of my financial powers. I played those same hands over and over again. Once or twice I even made the wrong calls, but I knew I hadn’t.
Eventually, I dropped off into a fitful sleep and awoke the next morning with my unnamed partner sleeping peacefully with her back to me. I thought about waking her for one final session, but decided against it. I took a shower instead, trying to cleanse myself of all that had happened in the last five or six hours.
I felt better and was glad to see that my evening’s entertainment was getting dressed when I emerged from the shower.
Even at this hour of the morning, she looked more like a million dollars than I did. But the difference was that I really was worth a million dollars, while she’d earned eight hundred hundred dollars for her night’s work. I suppose it’s all relative. The irony of course is that if I’d never gambled in my life, I’d have had the same amount tucked away. But this was much more fun.
************************************************** **********************************************
I wanted so much to tell all my mates how much I’d won – that’s what all gamblers love to do, advertise the winnings, keep schtum about the losses, but I chose to keep it all under wraps. Firstly, I didn’t want to steal Simmo’s thunder with news of my good fortune and, secondly, knowing my luck it could all have been gone by the morrow.
Money safely under lock and key, I re-joined the stag party, eagerly awaiting a game of golf. We would be drinking from 10am until 7am the following day so we wolfed down a full English to line the stomach.
We arrived at the newly built Bali Hai Golf Club, conveniently located on the Vegas Strip. $100 was a snip considering the amount I’d won the night before and I paid for a few others including Simmo.
I hooked, sliced and duffed my way to the seventh hole but my scorecard wasn’t looking too shabby. This was my fourth time ever playing but my hand-eye coordination fought against my horrendous technique and was winning. At the turn, I was keeping up with my teammates, on course to posting a possible below-par score (post-handicap adjustment). But after a Gerry Adams (playing a provisional) and an Adolf (two shots in the bunker), my score began to reach triple figures. I faced a Dennis Wise (nasty five-footer) on every hole at some point with every putt a Cuban (needing one more revolution). At the 17th, I Princess Di’d it – I shouldn’t have taken the driver! At the 18th, I hit a Sally Gunnell (ugly but a good runner) and after an OJ Simpson (guess the meaning yourselves) was now left with a Diego Maradona – A very nasty five footer! It was a real Salman Rushdie (an impossible read) and I stroked an Elton John (a big bender that hits the rim). As the crowd on the 19th hole terrace looked on, I tapped in for a respectable 137 – at the time 60 over par!
As much fun as I was having, golfing and later paintballing and quad biking, seemed so pointless compared to chasing another million. At the time I felt disappointed that I could not let go and enjoy myself but the addiction was strong, ever-present and slowly drawing me to the tables. But I tried to focus on all the entertainment Vegas had to offer.
Michael then called me during the afternoon informing me about an even bigger game than the night before. It was his responsibility to keep money flowing into the casino and as far as his bosses were concerned my money was as good as any of the other whales constantly going broke at the Wynn. I was trying to avoid the casino but they don’t half make it difficult!
Alcohol was the final of the four vices to be experienced in large quantities. My drunkeness barrier which was usually at five pints (due to my good level of fitness) was decimated sometime around 9pm. I staggered around The Strip like a dribbling zombie, not yet detached from the rest of our intoxicated group.
‘I fagugging lurrrrrv you man!!’ Simmo wanted to tell me he loved me but he was completely sozzled and slurred his words.
‘Love you too big man. Fancy a lappers?’
‘I’m all over that sh-sh-****. The missus won’t mind will she?’
‘Course not Simmo. You’re going to be a good boy in there aren’t ya.’
‘GET ME IN THERE.’ Simmo started running.
We barged into Spearmint Rhinos, the name being the closest we came to any kind of nature. From Spearmint we travelled to Larry Flint’s and then finally to Badda Bing, where Edward had planned a special surprise for Simmo. Propped up by two of his teammates, Simmo was led to a private room populated by three strippers. Each was wearing an extremely racy bridal outfit putting us all in the mood for a wedding – and more. Luckily there have been many stag dos to Las Vegas and Simmo’s identity cannot be easily guessed though the man turned into an animal that night.
With his head buried between three pairs of bosoms, they tore off his clothing. As his clothes were being removed Simmo began to protest – rather weakly I have to say - but that only spurred us on to encourage him to carry on.
In the end, he capitulated, stuffing hundreds of dollars (contributed by me) into their thongs. They performed an indescribable sex-act on Simmo although I never saw the finish. Some things are just wrong although Edward seemed to be transfixed.
At some point during the small hours of the next day I became detached from the group with a familiar force dragging me back to the casino. My problems were all but solved with this latest win-streak but a gambler never quits. Life is one long punt down the River Fortuna.
I was in no position to concentrate on playing cards but I couldn’t resist the alluring action of the craps table.
Within half an hour I was holding the dice, and at the same time, my fate. I cashed in a marker of $200,000 saving a large proportion of the million dollars. My towering stack hand dwindled to just a few thousand before I turned my attention to blackjack to break the losing cycle.
Another two markers cashed in, I was ushered to the high roller room. I intended to bet $50,000 a hand. I was informed by the floor-man that Kobe Bryant was down an ungodly amount and was not to be approached.
After a couple of losing bets, I demanded to see Michael. I waited by the cage, itching to bet as I knew my luck was going to turn around.
‘I understand you need me? Is everything alright?’
‘Yes and no. I’m 600 large in the hole. I need the other 400!
‘That’s not a problem but I have to ask you if you’re sure. My bosses wouldn’t be happy with me telling you this, but I think you’ve gambled enough.’
‘Go big or go home. My step-dad always taught me that.’
‘I’ll release the money but why did you call me? You could have just cashed in your markers.’
‘I need you to approve the bet. All 400k’s going on one hand.’
‘I’ll sort it now. Best of luck. But if it loses, don’t chase. I’ve seen many ruin their lives here and my brother tells me you’re a good guy.’
‘I won’t be able to chase.’
Pants laughed assuming I was joking.
I was given four chips and strode into the high rollers section, preparing to shove Kobe aside if he got in the way of me getting even. People were looking, pointing and whispering but they were an irrelevance. My only concern was the $400,000 I placed in the box. I was gambling money it would take an average person over ten years to earn. My mother would be absolutely disgusted. But even she could not have stopped me.
Blackjack would have been a nice stroke of luck but I was cursed. I looked down to see a miserable 9 and 6, making the dreaded total of 15. Worse still, the dealer was showing a bastardly jack of hearts. He was winking at me as is his custom. For someone confident in cards, odds and percentages, I was at a complete loss what to do. However, since just the dealer and I were playing, the solution is simple. If I ‘hit’ and I’m dealt a seven or higher (and hence go bust), the dealer would have reached 17, 18, 19, 20 or 21 if I did not hit. Damned if I do, broke if I don’t. So I had to gamble. ‘Hit me’. I told the dealer to turn over the card slowly. He nodded approvingly, acknowledging how a gambler wants value for money. Dealers are not given profit-related bonuses by the casino and so it was not unexpected that this dealer wanted me to win.
I was dealt a bitch, the Queen of spades, sending me bust and back to the cheap seats. Throughout all the losing I’d rarely reacted but a reaction was necessary or there was no hope. Feeling numb, having lost a million dollars in a matter of hours was unacceptable. I did what any respectable loser would do and blamed the deck of cards. I reached over and grabbed the shoe containing the remaining cards and removed a handful. I ripped everyone to shreds and threw the shoe at the wall smashing a chandelier in the process. Holding my hands up, I was escorted from the building though the floor staff completely understood. In fact they were so understanding that they didn’t bother to hang around for a tip.
If someone hasn’t said it already when referring to gambling, I hope it becomes a catchphrase: ‘Everything means nothing whilst gambling’.
The whole night ran contrary to my earlier thoughts, planning, hopes and dreams. I’d first started gambling as I believed I had an edge (on football). I then gambled to chase the money I’d lost whilst not having an edge. Finally, I planned to achieve profit through meticulous and cautious poker play, all for nothing as I failed to listen to my more sensible angel perched on my epaulet.
Years too late I was told that ‘winnings are infinite, losses are finite.’ I’d achieved the amount I believed would make me happy and yet had gambled it all back. I can’t even blame the drink. I had a problem. Still do. We are gamblers for life. In essence, for the addicts, no matter the amount won, it will never be enough. However, when you hit rock-bottom, it’s real. Oh, you’ll scratch around, falling deeper and deeper but there is an end. For some it’s just a failed relationship or having to move into cheaper accommodation. For others, a great deal worse lies in wait. Read on.
I left Vegas with just one coin, the coin which I had failed to use in my hour of need. Oh and Simmo got married a week later.
2003/2004 Season stats
Games started: 12
Subbed in 4:
Goals: 3
Assists: 2
Yellow Cards: 3
Red Cards: 1 (yellow/red)
Money in Bradford & Bingley: £-£3,500
Money owed to Cedric: £250,000
Profit/Loss: -£280,000
High Point: +£670,000
Low Point: All of it
Coke habit: Average 3 lines per day
10-27-2013
, 02:52 AM
10-27-2013
, 02:54 AM
10-27-2013
, 03:22 AM
10-27-2013
, 03:32 AM
